


Release

by Xie



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-23
Updated: 2008-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-26 18:03:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12064209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xie/pseuds/Xie
Summary: A post-513 trip to Vermont...





	Release

I.

Vermont in the summer is very different from Vermont in the winter.

Instead of snowy fields, there's endlessly green grass. The lakes aren't ice, they're rough-edged blue. And everywhere I look, birds are singing and little yellow flowers are opening in the meadows, and it's all brilliantly, annoyingly vernal.

I suddenly miss the noise and stink of New York, which makes no sense, since they're what I was escaping in this quiet, perfect, pretty place.

My bag is sitting near the door, but I leave it there. I just flop down on the bed and stare up at the ceiling.

 

II.

After a while, I pushed up onto my elbows and looked out the window again. A white cloud floated by and I groaned, imagining every snarky word Brian was going to say about the sun sparkling on the lake and the daffodil fluff dancing in the sunbeams, one eyebrow raised, impeccably elegant in one of his expensive suits.

I groaned again and threw myself backwards on the bed, wishing the words "vacation in Vermont" had never, ever entered my head or passed my lips. And where the fuck did Brian get off anyway? "Sounds great. Next weekend?" What the fuck?

III.

I got bored with the ceiling after a while, and the window was just annoying me, so I went and got my bag and threw it in the closet.

The louvre-doored, walk-in closet with mahogany luggage racks.

I got my sketchpad and went out on the deck, where the lounge chair was more comfortable than my bed in New York.

The last sketch in my pad was, ironically, a tree. It was growing against a half-fallen wall, down behind the subway stop near my apartment building. I laughed at life's attempt to fuck with my head, and turned the page.

IV.

The stress of deciding between sketching the picturesque little rowboat tied to the dock or the birds nest in a tree near our cottage must have gotten to me. That, or the nine days I'd worked in a row to try and get this weekend off from the restaurant where I waited tables to pay my rent.Whatever it was, I fell asleep. When I woke up, the sun had moved off the lake, and the trees were casting shadows on the water.  
And Brian was standing next to me, smiling, wearing a white t-shirt, two beers in his hands.

V.

I sat up, and took the beer he offered me.

He dropped gracefully down into the lounge next to mine. "I hate to say it, but this place really markets itself, doesn't it?" He nodded at the lake and trees.

I took a swallow of my beer, and considered his words. "It's very… pastoral."

Brian laughed. "Why, Sunshine, regretting we're not spending the weekend in a sex club in New York City, getting our dicks sucked by hot guys with tattoos?"

I contemplated him over the rim of the bottle, and then I grinned. "Getting my dick sucked sounds okay."

VI.

Brian laughed again, and stood up, setting his beer bottle down on the deck. He knelt next to me, and I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him.

His lips were warm, and his tongue tasted like beer. I felt the tight wires connecting my shoulders to my spine tense and then unravel, my whole body turning into heat and motion under Brian's hands.

The air was warm when he opened my jeans, and his hand slid between my legs, cradling my balls. I lifted my hips, groaning, while he kissed his way down my chest and stomach.

VII.

His tongue swirled like water over the head of my cock, lapping at my slit. He groaned a little, and the vibration made me hiss.

I arched into his mouth, his throat, his fist. I got one leg over his shoulder, lifting into him while his hand slid underneath me, finger finding the spot behind my balls.

We could have been anywhere – indoors or out, surrounded by staring men or incurious birds. Because there was nothing except the slide of hand and lips on my dick, his wet finger slipping into my ass, my hands tugging hard at his hair.

VIII.

When I came, it was sweet, and it burned me, ripping out of my balls and pouring down his throat. He swallowed and licked and murmured, and crawled up my body. He dropped his weight onto me, kissing, nuzzling, and I got my arms and my legs around him, as hard as I could.

His cock slid in the wetness on my belly, and I felt his face pressing into the side of my neck while he moved in it, rocking against me.

"I love you," I whispered into his ear. "Love you, love you…"

He choked my name, "Justin."

IX.

I felt him come, pouring out between us, slick and wet and hot, his hands gripping my shoulders. I finally let my arms and legs fall open, and he slumped across me, head on my shoulder.

I lay here, hand in his hair, not thinking. The air was still warm, even though the shadows covered nearly the entire lake.

After a long time, he lifted his head, and smiled up at me. "I'm assuming this resort has some kind of room service… or did you want to scandalize the oh-so-proper New England patrons by holding hands in the dining room?"

X.

I laughed, and kissed him. "Scandal sounds good. It's almost impossible to do anything New Yorkers even notice, let alone freak out over."

He got up, and held out a hand to me. "Apparently, Pittsburgh still has its advantages, even over New York." He pulled me against his body, and kissed me. "And yes, this is your cue to bat your lashes and say, 'Pittsburgh has you, Brian.'"

I smiled. "Right now, Vermont has you." I brushed my lips across his, and he bumped his nose into mine.

His voice sounded a little rough. "Yeah. Right now, Vermont has me."

XI.

We ate dinner at a table overlooking a lawn leading down to the lake. No one seemed to know or care that we were holding hands, and the waiter winked at me while he re-filled my wine glass.

On the way back to the cottage, I stopped and laughed. A perfect crescent moon hung over the trees, illuminating the water. "Christ, this place is like a non-stop postcard about the glories of Vermont."

Brian started walking towards our cottage again. "I don't know," he said, arm going over my shoulder. "I think Vermont's all right."

I smiled. "Yeah. Me, too."


End file.
